


To While Away the Idle Hours

by katiebour



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Heterosexual Sex, Humor, Mutual Masturbation, Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-25
Updated: 2011-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-20 18:30:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiebour/pseuds/katiebour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a prompt on the k!meme:</p><p><i>In the three years Anders rejected F!Hawke's advances, she spent her days and nights fantasising about being with him. As it seemed there was no way her dreams would turn into reality, she decided to write down her frustration in a journal (or in several letters that were not supposed to be sent). </i></p><p><i>At some point Anders comes across her journal/letters and can't help himself: he has to read it/them. (They can be already in a relationship and living together or not; perhaps this leads to them getting in a relationship)</i></p><p><i>This anon expects to read about Hawke's frustration with Anders in general (sexual or of any sort), her thoughts on their UST, her fantasies with him (fluffy and smutty both hopefully), and may be even plots to get him to give in to her (which probably didn't work).</i></p><p><i>As a result Anders gives in to F!Hawke and sexy times ensue. OR may be they already are in a relationship and Anders goes "awww" and/or is a little creeped out by some of Hawke's fantasies. It's up to you anons! Fluff and humour are most welcome along with smut. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

To while away the idle hours, seated the livelong day before the inkslab, by jotting down without order or purpose whatever trifling thoughts pass through my mind, truly this is a queer and crazy thing to do!

 _-from Tsurezuregusa, "The Harvest of Leisure"_

**************************************************************************************

 _10:31 Dragon, 17 Harvestmere_

 ~~Today I~~

 ~~So Varric and I went~~

Enough scribbles- as if I have to play coy to myself.  Although I suppose if I ever  _do_  publish my memoirs, I might have to consider some serious revisions.

I met someone today.

That sounds incredibly stupid.  I meet people every day- mine workers and angry husbands and crazy dwarves and prostitutes.  Kirkwall is a big city- if I had a sovereign for every person I met-

Enough pussyfooting around.  Although-

Some part of me is oddly afraid to commit these thoughts to paper, baring the depths of my idiocy to all and sundry.  I don't know why I bother keeping a journal in this hovel- I suppose I'd best be glad that Gamlen doesn't appear to have found my hiding place yet.  Of course, that simply begs the question of whether Gamlen can even  _read-_

All right, that was mean-spirited, I admit it.  The spoiled second child of the wealthy Amells probably had the kind of formal education that Beth dreamed of, hoarding her worn books and the precious chalks that Da found for her.  Equally good for sigils on the floor and those dreamy landscapes she always used to draw.

I wish I'd brought those chalks; smalls would have been easier to replace.  Not that we've had a lot of time for the finer arts since coming to Kirkwall.

He's tall.  I've rarely seen a man of his height- something about squat Marchers and compact, dour Ferelden peasant-folk.  It's a refreshing change- a long, tall drink of handsome for a throat too long parched.

Oh, Maker, even thinking about him makes my blood heat.  Shameful, considering that he's nearly a complete stranger.

He lives in a dark, damp, chilly rabbit-warren in Darktown, healing the needy like a bleeding saint.  But somehow I doubt a saint ever looked someone over with eyes the color of fine whiskey the way he looked at me.

I'm probably imagining it.  Silly Kit, mooning over the scruffily handsome apostate healer as if he were a character out of  _Rivaini's Revenge._    ~~Not that I've ever read that, really- I've just seen it around-~~

Blast.  Fine, I read it.  But somehow that dashing pirate doesn't quite slake my thirst- he's alltogether too dark and wicked and 'eyes of the palest blue' seem altogether too cold and impersonal.

He was mincing elfroot and spindleweed together for a pot of salve.  I think Beth noticed too- she murmured something about him reminding her of Da.  Odd how a familiar set of smells can make you feel like you  _know_  someone, even if you've just met.

We asked him for his maps- he told me with a modicum of politeness that I should have my head checked for wanting to venture into the Deep Roads.  Well, something along those lines, anyway.  But he seemed to understand when I told him about Mother and Beth.  

He relented enough to offer us the maps in exchange for a small favor- smuggling a friend of his out of the Chantry and out from underneath the Templar's noses.  Not that I particularly want to attract the notice of the Templars, but it sounds as though Anders and his friend have been discreet.  I'm sure everything will be fine.


	2. Chapter 2

_10:31 Dragon, 18 Harvestmere_

It was a disaster.

I should have seen it coming- we  _knew_  that the Templars had intercepted their letters.  I should have asked him to stay at the clinic while I went to look for his friend.  Anything but that.

Maker-

I never understood exactly what Da was running from- he never liked to talk about the Circle.  He taught Beth just enough to keep her safe and to help out the family, but the rest of the time he simply wanted to hide it whenever possible.  He was so careful; it was always "This salve can cure almost  _anything_ " or "It's not as bad as it looks" and as soon as they were distracted or asleep, a bit of magic to patch them up.

I've been in the Gallows from time to time, and while it was one thing to see that sad fellow chasing around the little Tranquil mage with the brand on her forehead, it is  _immeasurably_  worse to see it up close.

Karl remembered Anders, of that there was no doubt, but when he spoke in that dead voice, calm and collected while he gave his friend to the Templars, it became immediately clear to me that whatever Karl Thekla truly was died the moment they branded him.

If Father had been caught and made Tranquil, he would have turned in Beth in that same fashion.  It's truly horrible to see what having no feelings or emotions can do to a person.

As for Anders-

I don't know what magic he was using, but I've never seen the like.  It was like lightning fighting its way out of him from the inside.  Beth refuses to talk to me about it, but it's clear that whatever it was frightened her as much, or perhaps more, than myself.

Of course, we've never directly fought Templars like that before, and in the Chantry no less.  I shudder to think about the consequences if they were to trace the goings-on to us.  So much for laying low.

Karl came to himself for a moment; it was the oddest thing, as I thought Tranquil were irrevocably cut off from the Fade.  But that odd blue magic seemed to have some sort of temporary effect.  I don't know whether it made things better or worse, though.  He came back to himself just long enough to beg for death, and it seemed to break something in Anders to hear it.

That little brush of his thumb on the greying beard, the quick press of lips before he drove the blade home- in any other circumstance I might have been jealous, I suppose.  Not that I have any right to be- after all, I only met him yesterday.  But I can feel nothing but sadness knowing that the man who died at Anders' hands tonight was more than a friend.  I cannot imagine what it took for him to do it.  We both knew that once Karl resumed his Tranquil state he'd have had no qualms about telling the Templars everything that happened, including the part that Bethany and I played.

In a way, he did it as much to protect all of us as to give his friend peace, and for that I'm thankful.

I'll go and talk to him on the morrow.  Those beautiful brown eyes looked so sad tonight.  He insisted he wanted to be alone, but I can at least offer my condolences and a shoulder if he wants it.

********************************************************************************************************

Anders looked up guiltily at the sound of the door downstairs- no doubt it was Orana returned from her shopping.  Bodahn had been kind enough to let him in, the latest version of his manifesto in tow.

 _She did ask to read it_ , he thought defensively.  

 **Put it on the desk and go.**

Of course, he'd simply meant to put it on her desk.  But that tantalizingly open journal sat there, and the little doodle had caught his eye.  Isabela's work, no doubt- the stick figure in blocky armor doing  _something_  to the stick figure in robes, little stick hands groping what looked like an impressive and sparkling appendage.   _Just a suggestion_ , the caption read.

So he flipped back idly to the beginning of the journal, scanning the first few entries out of a perfectly  _normal_  sense of curiosity.

 **Our feelings suggest that this action would be considered inappropriate.**

Anders gritted his teeth- it was like playing Wicked Grace with your cards facing the rest of the table.  That part of him that was Justice would have been just fine with things if that part of him that was Anders wasn't feeling the tiniest bit guilty.  It was a tell he couldn't hide.

 **This is not a game of cards.**

"Shut up," he muttered, scanning the lines.   _It's not hurting anyone._

 _'I met someone today-'_

 _'He lives in a dark, damp, chilly rabbit-warren in Darktown, healing the needy like a bleeding saint.  But somehow I doubt a saint ever looked someone over with eyes the color of fine whiskey the way he looked at me.'_

Anders' mouth fell open.  Andraste's flaming knickers, she was talking about  _him._

He stood, indecisive for a mere moment before being spurred into action.  Kit wasn't due back for several days- she'd gone with Merrill, Varric and Isabela to Sundermount- something to do with that blasted mirror.

He and Fenris had both made their opinions clear as far as Dalish bloodmagery were concerned, and oddly enough, they were in agreement.  As much as Anders enjoyed getting out of Kirkwall, the tense silences and angry exchanges with the foolish little git of an elf left him as frustrated and irritated as they did Merrill.  It was probably for the best that they spent as little time as possible in each other's company.

He shook his head- enough of that.  Kit was gone, and therefore, he had as much time as he wanted.  If Bodahn came upstairs, he could claim to have been struck with brilliant inspiration, perhaps writing an addendum to the manifesto.

Maker knew he'd already spent hours in Kit's library scrawling out his thoughts- she'd been kind enough to offer him a place when the Templars had raided Darktown and the clinic.  The meals had been lovely too, and she'd told Bodahn in Anders' hearing that he was welcome whenever he wished.

Having decided to sate his curiosity, Anders pulled out the chair and sat, pulling the journal close.

He started again from the beginning, eyebrows raising slightly at  _'a long, tall drink of handsome'_  then sucked in a breath at the next few lines:

 _'Oh, Maker, even thinking about him makes my blood heat.  Shameful, considering that he's nearly a complete stranger.'_

She had no idea.  He'd had a hard time keeping his eyes off her, such a pretty little thing with her wide golden eyes and dark skin.  She looked exotic, Rivaini or Antivan, a little warrior goddess with her practical, short-cropped dark red hair, helm clasped under her arm, sword and shield at her back.  Everyone he'd seen for weeks had been sick or ill or starved, and in she'd walked, as if branded by sunshine, a picture of health and beauty.

And then she'd offered him her hand, told him her name, and as he'd clasped that sword-callused palm in his own he'd resisted the urge to brush a kiss across it in the Orlesian fashion.  But the thought had crossed his mind, and for a moment they'd stood there, watching each other, an undefinable  _something_  between them, her hand strong and warm in his.

They'd talked, flirted a little bit, and when he realized she'd seen him healing, that she  _knew_  he was a mage and flirted anyway, he'd enjoyed it as he'd enjoyed few things since coming to Kirkwall.  And then her sister had come up, the dark little girl clutching her staff outside his clinic with the dwarf and the guard, and he'd realized he was  _safe_.

Not only would she not turn him in, but his magic didn't even faze her- she smiled and talked and laughed as if he were a completely normal person.  He'd only really ever felt that from other mages, or perhaps the Wardens.

He turned back to the journal, and as his eyes skimmed the end of that entry he felt the old, familiar ache.

 _'it sounds as though Anders and his friend have been discreet.  I'm sure everything will be fine.'_

 _Ah, Karl._

He turned to the next entry.

Reading her words, seeing it through her eyes brought the ache in his chest to the fore.   _Gone, but never forgotten, Karl._   He'd remembered bits and pieces of that night, the initial shock of losing Karl in addition to his loss of control, blanking out and regaining himself to find that he was surrounded by Templar corpses.  It had been eerily similar to when he'd left the Wardens, and he'd been terrified that the little warrior's corpse would have been amongst the Templar bodies.  But then Karl had spoken, the real Karl, looking at him, pleading with him to end it.  

He'd wavered, remembering the kind man who'd taken in a scared boy of twelve and made sure he was properly settled, dropping into that familiar, shared accent that was a breath of home in the cold stone Tower.  The small kindnesses over the years, the smuggled treats each year around Sobótka when everyone in the Anderfels was celebrating midsummer, that first awkward kiss after his Harrowing when Anders had realized how much he'd cared for the other man.

But the little warrior had spoken up, reminding him of what Karl would become if he  _didn't_  act, and he'd known.

Afterwards, he'd gone back to the clinic and lain awake on his cot, deliberately remembering every moment he'd spent with Karl.  It was the only remembrance he could offer, but sometime between night and dawn he'd managed to replace the memory of those dead grey eyes and their crowning brand with the laughing quicksilver gaze of the man who'd loved him.

And the next day she'd come, reserving her judgement as he'd fumbled to explain about Justice.  She'd listened and questioned and lastly with a comforting press of her hand to his arm she'd left.  Anders had been sure he'd never see her again, but not two days later she'd come back with a bit of lunch wrapped in a cloth and pulled him away long enough to eat, smiling and talking and telling him to knock off the whole "sexy, tortured look."  He'd nearly choked on his heavily watered ale at that, but she'd certainly been successful at distracting him from his thoughts, a not-entirely-unpleasant flush making its way to the tips of his ears.

Anders browsed through the entries, skimming idly until he found the next mention of himself.


	3. Chapter 3

_11:31 Dragon, 26 Firstfall_

I seem to have added another misfit to our merry band of 'adventurers.'  We were working on scraping together more coin for the expedition.  Athenril sent me a letter regarding a job offer, and we met with the dwarf last night.  He claimed to be a smuggler whose goods had been misappropriated in the Alienage- that should have been my first clue.  No one hides anything of value in the Alienage.

We were set upon by a mob of cutpurses on the way there- Kirkwall is swarming with gangs these days.  Apparently we need to work on cultivating a more threatening appearance.

In any case we made it to the location specified and dealt with the 'smugglers' only to find an empty crate and trouble waiting for us outside the shack.

I've never met any Tevinters but I must say last night left a bad taste in my mouth.  They were looking for an elf, but just as happy to try and cut us down.  One of the bastards caught me from behind-

Have I ever said how much I truly dislike being  _stabbed?_

Everything went cold- Anders and Varric were holding their own, Isabela, clever girl, went for the mage and broke his arms before he could batter us further.  I also dislike magical explosions, and being caught in them.

In any case, I must have been out for a while.  It was rather nice, though, to wake up and find my favorite apostate bending over me- if it hadn't been for the lump on my head and ache in my skull, not to mention the new hole in my side, I'd have been quite happy.

He's such a good man- even when he's got that look on his face that says "I'm holding my tongue when what I really want to do is throttle you for being an idiot" while he's healing.  I hope I didn't say anything too foolish- it was all a bit fuzzy for a few moments after he patched me back up.

After we got back up we met the source of the trouble- an escaped slave, formerly of Tevinter, branded with what is apparently a king's ransom worth of lyrium.  He calls himself Fenris, and he'd apparently used Anso to hire us under false pretenses.  

I don't mind that, so much; it's not as though he'd have any reason to trust us, and I was more than willing to see the job through and help him with the magister holed up in Hightown.

But once we were inside the mansion, wading through the lovely magical traps this Danarius left behind, he started glaring at Anders.  The git even refused to be healed at first, although I don't know exactly what he thought he'd accomplish trying to swing a broadsword one-armed.  

Long story short, the magister was long gone and the elf threw a temper tantrum.  It was like having Carver back, for a second, actually.

Once we were outside he started spitting all sorts of vitriol about "vipers" and "the nature of mages" as if we hadn't just fought a band of slavers and a houseful of demons with Anders doing most of the bloody work.

Truly- I know my limits.  I'm good with a sword and a shield, and as long as I can get in front of him, keep them away while he's sketching glyphs and throwing fireballs I serve my purpose.  Varric is a gem at finding weak spots and Bianca never fails to deliver.  Even the elf has an impressive set of abilities- I've never seen someone of his build wield a sword of that size with such ease, and the odd markings make him blur and fade on the battlefield- it's oddly hard to watch.

But when you've got a group of five or six or ten angry shades bent on tearing you limb from limb, there's nothing like the cheerful glow of a firestorm engulfing them before they can overrun your defenses.  We'd never be able to accomplish half of what we do without Anders- well, perhaps we would but it'd be much more painful- possibly deadly.  And then when he's nearly exhausted, working all bloody night, he uses up the last of his reserves to make sure we're whole and unmarked, as if a few little cuts had to be healed immediately instead of letting time and bandages do their work.

And knowing that as dawn approached he was heading back to the clinic for a few measly hours of rest before seeing patients- it made my blood boil.  Viper indeed.  Even with Justice in tow Anders is a living example of magic serving man- he gives and gives and gives until he's got nothing left.  He's got no coin, lives in a ruined mine, wears clothes that have been mended so often they are more patch than whole cloth, barely eats, and every day of his life he wakes up and  _gives_ , as much to me as to any of the denizens of Darktown.

I started giving him part of his share of our earnings in food rather than coin weeks ago, just to see him  _eat_  instead of spending it on bandages or elfroot or a few more blankets.

All right, I admit I am a bit biased as far as mages are concerned, especially when it comes to Beth and Anders.  But I'll not let anyone denigrate and insult my friends.  Something of my outrage must have shown on my face- I simply reminded the bleeding elf that he was insulting a Grey Warden, a healer, and  _my friend_  and he offered a half-hearted apology that didn't sound particularly genuine.  But Varric decided we could use him and invited him to join us on the expedition, so I guess we haven't seen the last of him.  He'd better watch his tongue, though, or I'll put my fist in his face.

********************************************************************************************************

Anders read on, fascinated.  He remembered that night clearly, from the moment she'd popped into his clinic with that irresistible smile that got him into all sorts of trouble until they'd finished clearing out the mansion and dealing with Fenris.

He'd panicked, a little, when she'd collapsed- they'd been in all sorts of scrapes before but he'd never seen her fall in battle.  After they'd dispatched the hunters he'd rushed over, heart in his throat, and as he'd carefully removed her helm, relief had washed over him to see that she was coming to.  She'd promptly lost consciousness again, the red of her blood staining the ground from the vicious wound in her side, and he swore that if she _dared_  to die on him he'd kill her, twisting and pulling the Fade to knit flesh and skin and blood vessels again.  He'd breathed a little easier once the wound was closed, and when she'd started to come to she'd smiled so sweetly at him as he'd cradled her in his lap, finding the lump on her head and soothing it.

He'd realized then that he was in trouble, Justice murmuring his disquiet in the back of his head, and yes, yes, they didn't have time for this, she deserved better, he needed to tend to his patients and his efforts to help the mages locked in the Gallows, but when she'd looked at him and whispered his name, as if it were a promise and a benediction, he'd been hard-pressed to run a finger over those lips, to caress with his hands before following with his mouth.

Varric's exaggerated throat-clearing had pulled him out of that reverie, and within a few minutes she was awake and healed, sword in hand and helm on her head, his battle maiden once again at the fore.  

Justice had armored him likewise in guilt and necessity and duty, and they'd resumed their task, rebuilding the wall that both of them carefully refused to acknowledge.  She was earning coin for the expedition and for her family- he was building connections and supporting the clinic and the underground.  They were associates, useful to one another, with different goals and needs, and if those needs happened to overlap, well, that was just luck.  They certainly weren't doing it for each other.

Except that they were.  Just a few days ago, she'd stopped in his clinic, bringing light and sunshine and warm words and scorching glances, distracting him from the manifesto and the clinic and the mages and making him remember, for just a little while, that there was a man named Anders still in him, a man who ate and slept and loved cats and pretty girls.

They'd talked, the Champion of Kirkwall settling herself in one of his broken chairs next to the firepit as if it were the most comfortable seat she'd ever taken, and when he'd thanked her for her help, supporting their cause, she'd looked at him for a long moment.

 _"I'm doing it for you,"_  she'd said.  He'd stared at her, speechless, not believing that she was tearing down their carefully constructed wall of pretense.  She'd stood, then, and paced away for a few moments before turning back to him.   _"Bethany is doing well in the Circle, and she's relatively happy there.  But I know what they'd do to you, Anders, if they found out about Justice-"_   Her eyes had been filled with emotion.   _"I have nightmares about it, sometimes- I dream that they've found you, taken you away and locked you up, or made you Tranquil, or killed you, and when I wake up I rush down here just to make sure that you're still here, to reassure myself that you're all right."_

He'd stared at her, seated on a crate masquerading as a chair, and in that moment he and Justice had been in complete accord- Maker, they loved this woman.

She'd blushed a little bit when he'd said nothing, and looking to the side she'd said  _"I have to go.  Merrill and Varric and Isabela and I have a trip we need to make up to Sundermount."_   She'd walked over and brushed her lips over his as he'd sat, frozen, and then turned and left before he'd been able to formulate a single coherent thought.

He brushed a finger over the journal page.  She'd been protecting him for years, had admired him, cared about him,  _wanted_  him even back then.

 _I tried to resist, to tell her that she deserved better,_  he thought placatingly at that part of him that was Justice.   _Please-_

 **It is a foolish distraction.  Lives are at stake.  We have no time for such things.  Leave our writings and go.**

 _No.  I will NOT.  I am claiming this one thing for myself and myself alone,_  he thought, angrily.   _You've read these pages.  You know what she's done for us over the years, and you would deny both her_  and  _I happiness?_

"Messere Anders?" came the tentative voice from the doorway, and he nearly jumped out of his skin as the dwarf spoke.  "Is there something I can help with, ser?"

"No, Bodahn, thank you," he replied hastily, "I'm just- I had some new ideas that I wanted to jot down, and the desk and pen were handy-"

The dwarf's face cleared in relief.  "Ah, I see, ser.  Much quieter up here, anyway- Sandal and messere's mabari always get a bit rowdy before supper."

Now that he was paying attention, Anders could indeed hear the barks and yips and laughter of the strange young dwarf.

"Well, I'll leave you to it, then," Bodahn said, "Shall I bring you a tray, ser?"

"Yes, thank you, Bodahn," Anders replied, "I'll just- keep working, then."  He dipped the quill in the inkwell, and the dwarf left, content that his duty was discharged, closing the door behind him.

Well, he was stuck here now.  It would be odd for him to up and leave after claiming to be busy writing.  The manifesto was done, his latest draft as perfect as he could make it, so that left-

He shrugged and flipped a few more pages in the journal.


	4. Chapter 4

Anders perused the rather terse entries that followed, detailing in brief the jobs they'd taken and coin they'd earned.  He flipped a few pages more and found a single entry that made his gut clench:

 _3:32 Dragon, 8 Drakonis_

 _We made it out of the Deep Roads with our lives and treasure that will no doubt fetch a fortune.  Given the circumstances we made out well, really._

 _Mother won't talk or look at me.  She just sits and stares into the fire._

 _I wasn't there to protect her.  I've spent my whole bloody fucking life trying to protect her and I got home too late._

 _They won't let us see her or send her a letter, yet.  The Knight-Captain has assured me that she passed her Harrowing and is settling in well, but the tone of his voice leaves me in no doubt of his deep disapproval.  How could such upstanding citizens such as ourselves have harbored a dangerous apostate?  Why hadn't we done the right thing and shipped Beth off to Lake Calenhad when she was five?_

 _We'll have wealth and position soon- the Viscount has apparently granted us the right to reclaim the derelict Amell estate._

 _What does it matter?  I suppose being able to take care of Mother properly should be reward enough, but our goal was always to put Beth beyond the Gallow's reach._

 _I failed.  Void take it all, I failed her._

********************************************************************************************************

Anders stood and paced for a few moments, trying to calm the flare of anger, automatic, now, that came when he thought about Bethany in the Circle.  Kit was caught in the worst of all possible situations- her family had achieved wealth and power at the same time that Bethany had been taken, guaranteeing that the newest prisoner of the Gallows was known to one and all as "that Hawke mage."  Given Kit's reputation with the Knight-Commander and the City Guard as a former smuggler, treasure hunter, and vortex of trouble, any attempt to smuggle Beth out of the Circle would have brought immediate scrutiny and jeopardized the standing and power Kit had purchased for Leandra so dearly.

Anders hadn't seen her for months after that- she'd simply vanished quietly into Hightown life, and the little he'd heard of her from Varric had made him wonder if she'd simply decided to retire her sword and play the lady.  He'd wished her well and tried to put thoughts of her aside, focusing on the clinic and the mage underground, to Justice's approval.  He'd been as surprised as anyone else when she'd simply shown up at the clinic one day, wearing her old armor, shield strapped to her back, and asked for help with Feynriel.

He noticed that one of the pages of the journal seemed to be a bit wrinkled, and flipping to it, found the page stained with wine, as though someone had set a wet mug on the journal, leaving behind a ring of faded purple and a few blotches.  The writing was sloppy and tilted, but he could make it out:

*********************************************************************************************************

 _3:32 Dragon, 14 Solace:_

 _I don't understand it.  I thought he liked me.  I know he said a few months back that he wasn't a 'safe' man to get involved with, whatever that means.  'Safe.'  Nobody's safe.  There's no such thing as giving yourself, your heart to someone 'safely.'_

 _He called me wise and kind and ~~beautifl~~   ~~beautifull~~  beautiful Maker I'm drunker than I thought.  But then he turns around and bloody pushes me away.  Every time I've tried to talk to him alone, he finds some sodding excuse for why he has to leave right fucking then.  _

 _I was in the Hanged Man for all of two minutes and there he was, chatting away with Varric with a ~~gorgeous~~  smile on his face, talking about kittens and marshes, and as soon as I walked in he left, as if I had the sodding plague or something._

 _Isabela understands.  At least_ she _likes me.  She got him to come to the Hanged Man for cards and it almost worked.  I knew I could count on 'Bela.  She dealt me the worst possible hands and put me right across from him, and when I lost my shirt I could tell that he liked what he saw.  No man looks at a woman like that if he doesn't want her._

 _If he'd just-_

 _He came up with some half-assed excuse about the clinic and left.  Dammit, Anders._

 _And now it's just me and this bottle of wine tonight, remembering eyes the color of the finest whiskey trying not to stare, trying not to look at anything but the cards in his hand (which was shaking, slightly- he's no good at trying to hide things.)_

 _I was brazen enough to take my shirt off in front of six of my closest friends- why couldn't I be brazen enough to just climb in his lap and kiss him insensible?_

 _I'm too afraid to do it, though.  It's easy enough on paper but in real life nothing's that simple.  If he pushed me away or started avoiding me it'd be ten times worse._

 _At least the way things are, I can still go see him, laugh and joke and talk with him.  And if I think of warm whiskey eyes on nights like these, when it's just me and the wine and my fingers in my bed, if it's his face I see and his touch I imagine when I'm trying to fill the hunger for him that never fucking seems to go away, then I guess that's just the way it is._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m totally making up Diamondback rules here- in this scenario you can fold but you have to show your folded hand, thus making it possible for the other players to count cards and adjust gameplay accordingly. Hell, why don’t we all come up with actual games of Diamondback and Wicked Grace? /snicker

Anders pushed back from the desk and stood, cheeks flushed.  She'd  _planned_  that, the minx, the entire miserable game.  He was bad at cards, always had been, and he'd known he was going to lose even as 'Bela had wheedled him into playing.  But while his hands has been middling to fair, (he'd only lost boots, socks, and coat before he'd left) Kit's had been unaccountably terrible.  Each time she'd turned up another folded hand, the table had groaned at the spread of numbered cards, no two alike, and nary a King, Queen, Prince or Fool amongst them.  He'd laughed along with the rest of the table at first, grinning as she'd shed boots, stockings, and belt.

He'd stopped laughing when she lost her breeches, when the thought of tanned legs, tantalizingly unclad under the table, delicately bared smalls- Maker, what if she  _wore_  no smalls?  What if she were completely bare under that wooden table, and all he had to do was drop a card to find out?  Isabela's appreciative glances and suggestive comments as she'd eyed the woman at her side made him break out into a sweat, and when the pirate's wandering hand had brought a giggle and a shriek from the little warrior he'd clenched his teeth, watching her blush and bat away the offending hand.

When she'd won the next few hands he'd managed to regain some semblance of normalcy, Isabela bickering with the rest of the table as to whether her elaborate jewelry  _counted_  as clothing, Fenris smirking behind a gauntleted hand when she finally removed headscarf and stockings, putting them with her boots.  That damned elf was a master at cards, second only to the dwarf, and he hadn't even had to remove his gauntlets yet-

And then she'd lost another hand, the pirate smirking as she'd protested.  He'd expected her to wriggle around, doing that laughable dance that women did to remove undergarments under shirts (he'd played enough games of strip Diamondback to be intimately familiar with the maneuver) but when she'd simply reached down, grabbed the hem of her tunic and pulled, he'd suddenly realized she wore no undergarment.  The table had erupted into laughter and catcalls, Isabela (damn her) running a finger up the side of Kit's tanned torso, Fenris watching and smirking, green eyes wicked with amusement and some measure of appreciation as they'd taken in her lovely form.  Varric had averted his eyes ("Sorry, Hawke, but Bianca would never forgive me") and Aveline had simply shrugged, throwing a smile to Donnic, who'd spared a glance for no one but her since the game had started.  

Anders had been struck still as stone as her tunic had come off, revealing that the dark, honeyed complexion of her face was in no part due to the kiss of the sun.  Her strong, slim form was that beautiful shade from the soft dip of her belly button, up to firm, high breasts,the tips a delicate flush of pink, hardening in the cool air of the tavern, across the strong muscles of her shoulders and arms, down to the soft flesh of her wrists and her sword-callused fingers.  

He'd drunk in the view of her, unable to stop himself, and as his gaze met hers, finally, he was surprised to see her pupils wide, with desire or shock, he wasn't sure.  When he'd licked his lips she'd shivered.  Isabela had dealt, again, and when he'd picked up his cards he'd struggled not to shake, not to simply push his chair back, walk over, and drag her to one of the other rooms, to find out if those soft rosy tips tasted as sweet as they looked, to find out if she would murmur softly in pleasure or wail and pull his hair when he took her.

He'd run, then, dropping the cards, picking up his boots and coat while hastily muttering about the time and his patients, and  _thank the Maker_  his coat had hung from his arms just enough to disguise his inevitable reaction.  Once he'd gotten outside he'd sat just long enough to pull on socks and boots before striding back to the clinic, and bolting the door.  

Once inside he'd dropped his coat and lain on his cot, unbelting his pants and pushing them down along with his smalls just enough to take himself in hand.  He'd cupped and massaged the base of his shaft and sac in one hand, stroking the shaft and head in a full, clenched fist with the other, circling, rhythmic movements that brought him to completion gasping and moaning, the image of her, all warm, soft skin and golden eyes and beautiful breasts burned into his mind as he'd spurted and writhed and groaned. 

********************************************************************************************************

He paced a little in her room, the air suddenly too warm and his clothes too tight as the memory of that day came flooding back.  And then she'd come back here, opened up a bottle of wine and gotten drunk, written her angry little journal entry (his mind resolutely refused to picture what would have happened if she  _had_  clambered into his lap, all beautiful bare limbs and hot mouth and kissed him) and then moved to the bed, the very bed in front of him, where she'd touched herself, rubbed and caressed and thrust fingers into that hot wetness, perhaps, with him in mind, his name on her lips-

 **This serves no purpose.**

Anders snarled at the voice in his head, the other part that was now part of him, which, despite years of shared thoughts and experiences remained as resolutely alien and apart from the experience of being human as it could possibly be.

 _This IS the purpose,_  he thought as hard as he could.   _If you take away affection and love and desire and friendship there's no bloody_  point _to any of it.  What point is there in being free if you aren't free to enjoy life, to enjoy the companionship of others, the touch of your beloved, to have a family and a life where you're happy-_

 **It is our fight to bring these things to the oppressed of Thedas.  If we waste time revelling in such things for ourselves we condemn others to their lack.**

 _I AM one of the oppressed, and I deserve this no less than any other man or mage,_  he thought, and was pleased when that part of him that was Justice subsided into vague sense of confused disapproval.  

A voice at his back cleared its throat, and Anders nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Supper for you, messere," Bodahn said, moving aside the papers on the desk to set a tray on the desk, the soup with its dark broth and floating bits of meat and savory vegetables giving off a tantalizing smell, the thick slices of fresh bread slathered in butter making Anders' mouth water.  

The dwarf bowed and left, and Anders settled at the desk, closing his eyes at the first bite of bread.  

When  _had_  he last eaten a decent meal?  He couldn't remember.

As much as he wanted to wolf down the food, he deliberately forced himself to eat slowly, enjoying each bite, taking occasional sips of the watered-down ale.

All too soon the tray was empty, and setting it outside and closing the door, Anders stretched languorously.  He knew that he should leave, but he was full, and tired, and the journal with its secrets taunted him, and her big, soft bed where she lay and slept and touched herself while thinking of him was  _right_  there.

She  _had_  said he was welcome any time- and she wasn't due back for days yet.

A bit of his old, devilish self crept in, and decision made, he unbuckled his coat, laying it over the chair before taking off his boots and socks.  He picked up the journal and carried it over to the bed, and setting it on the pillow, pulled back the soft, heavy covers and climbed in.

He nearly moaned aloud at the feel of a  _real_  bed, luxuriating in the feel of clean sheets and coverlets and a soft mattress.

He turned and buried his face in the pillow, inhaling deeply.  Maker, the bed even  _smelled_  like her, spicy and feminine, with a tang of soap and flowers.

Settling himself comfortably on his side, the faint glow of the candles in the room illuminating the worn cover of the journal, he pulled a pillow under his head and continued to read.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tevinter Chantry Amulet decoration based on the Emblem of Tevinter as seen here:  
> http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Tevinter_Shield
> 
> This chapter is inspired by Stevie Nicks' "Love Is."
> 
> Guess who's going to come home a few days earlier than expected? Preview of coming attractions...

_2:33 Dragon, 27 Guardian_

 _Why is it I can never seem to do or say the right thing?_

 _I found the amulet when we were hunting that bitch of a Magistra- Maker knows why they'd bring something like that along, but I suppose even the Tevinters get lonely for home, perhaps?_

 _I wasn't quite sure what to do with it- it was a pretty enough thing, all black lacquer with the straight, many-pointed Tevinter sun, surrounded by red and gold checks on the edges._

 _Despite the coloration it had a faint blue tingle to it- I've seen that sort of enchantment on the rings Anders wears; I figured it had something to do with healing._

 _I didn't even stop to think about how_  stupid  _it was to give him something like that- if the Templars found it on him they'd kill him on sight.  Maker, I am such an idiot.  All I could think is that it was pretty, possibly useful, and sort of- I don't know, amusingly revolutionary.  I babbled something stupid and apologetic, but by then he was determined to be nice about it, smiling and making jokes about kittens and virgins._

 _I've never felt like this before- it's been years, now, and I just can't think of anyone else.  It doesn't matter, anymore, that he pushes me away.  I won't deny it hurts, but I can't think about anyone else.  They just aren't tall enough, or blond enough, or if they're blond enough they don't have enough red in their hair, or their skin is too dark, or their eyes aren't that lovely warm brown, or-_

 _I could go on and on.  Maker knows I have.  Isabela suggested that succulent elf in the Rose, and if I'd met him a few years ago I would have_  loved _to give him a tumble, all big blue eyes and naughty glances._

Anders suddenly realized he was grinding his teeth.  Succulent?  He took a breath and turned the page.

 _But now- well, he just isn't the one I want.  And that makes all the difference in the world.  Isabela would say it's the difference between eating to survive and feasting, but I'd rather starve than have anything, anyone else.  How obsessed and banal that sounds._

 _Whatever it is, it's more powerful than I've ever felt for anyone, ever.  I thought I knew what love was, thought with Eldric back in Lothering that I'd be happy to settle down forever.  I thought warm kisses and seeking fingers and the press of two bodies, mixed with a liberal dose of affection, I thought that was love._

 _But love is-_

 _It's more.  It's looking at someone and wanting to run fingers over soft lips when the slightest brush of healing fingers makes the breath stop in your chest.  It's when you feel like you've been going through the motions your entire life and have finally discovered what it means to feel, to want, to long for someone, to admire and respect and desire them like fire in your veins._

 _  
I know he cares, too- that's the worst part.  To look at someone across the table and see that same look on their face, that same longing and affection in their eyes, to see their breath hitch and pulse jump when you're near._

 _It was so cold, that night on the coast, and Fenris and Isabela had already pitched their tent.  When I unrolled mine and realized the mice had been at it, well, there was nothing for it but to curl up next to the fire._

 _Of course Anders didn't have a tent, either.  We just lay on our bedrolls, trying to pretend we weren't staring at each other, trying to pretend that we weren't hearing the grunts and hoarse cries coming from over the next dune._

 _I don't think either of us slept much that night- he rolled over and pretended, but we've been on enough trips together.  I know by now that he's never that still when he's truly asleep.  I sound obsessed, don't I?  Yes, I've watched him sleep- watched the firelight glint off his hair, how the line between his brows and the crinkles around his eyes smooth out when he's asleep, how he looks vulnerable and beautiful and sweet lying on his back, eyes fluttering and tossing restlessly when the dreams inevitably overtake him._

 _I should have just crawled into his bedroll.  Isabela's been pushing me for months now to do_  something,  _but she doesn't understand.  For her, it's simply a game of chance, casting out her line and seeing what she hooks._

 _She doesn't understand that I could_  lose _him if I push it, and despite what she says, there's only one fish in my sea.  But after that episode with the girl and that bastard of a Templar, he's been so distant.  I know he thinks he's dangerous, unpredictable, unsuitable.  I won't deny that it's partially true, either.  But he heard me when I called out to him, he_ fought _Justice and I know he's strong enough to control it, whatever he thinks.  And if he falters, well, what good am I if I can't lend him my strength?_

 _It's this constant push-pull between us- the feeling that we won't acknowledge pulling us together, matched by our fears, pushing us apart.  It's drawn to a standstill, and he's there, just out of reach, as close as an embrace, a press of lips, a bit of honesty between us, but as far away as the walls we build can separate us._

******************************************************************************************

Anders closed the journal, the amulet she'd given him warm against his skin, her brutal honesty echoing the ache in his heart.  He'd tried to protect her, even if it was from himself, but the sadness in her words said that he'd failed.  Maker, he was so tired of fighting it, of pretending that nothing personal mattered, that he was some kind of visionary or selfless savior- the kind of person Justice pushed him to be.

 _I'm still a man,_  he thought.  Some days the ache and the desire for her were the only things that made him feel human, anymore.  He was so tired of righteous anger and indignation- before the Wardens he'd spent years perfecting the art of ignoring his darker emotions, of keeping everything carefully cheerful and friendly and shallowly pleasant.  As long as he kept up the pretense he'd been able to push away, ignore the anger of watching his friends come back from late-night trysts in the Tower bruised and bleeding, needing his skill because they'd been caught by a Templar.  He'd been able to push away the resentment of being inside three hundred days of the year, weak sun through the gilded prison bars the only reminder that he'd spent the first twelve years of his life outside at every opportunity.  

He'd been able to push deep, deep down the fear and hatred of a year locked away, alone, in the deep black of the Circle dungeon, walls and darkness closing in on him, exhaustion when he'd finally run through his mana keeping a small light burning in his palm for hours a day, the enchanted manacles resistant to anything he could do, and so, so quiet, except for his own broken humming, the sound of the rats, the  _clink_  of Templar armor when they'd brought him his watery gruel for the day.  When he'd screamed, begged, sang songs to himself, alone, in the dark, he'd wondered how much longer it could go on, or if he'd simply sleep more and more until one day he just stopped waking.

He'd thought with Justice he'd never have to be afraid again, never have to be alone, and that he could bring freedom, safety, happiness to others.  What he hadn't realized was how the spirit's unwavering call to duty mingled with his own pent-up anger would warp them both, leaving them with a wealth of bitterness, anger, and fear that was only soothed, momentarily, when they revenged themselves on the cause of such suffering.

In bringing safety and freedom to others, he'd lost most of himself, most of the things that made being human and alive pleasant and bearable.  

But she refused to give up on him- she kept coming to the clinic, day after day, week after week, year after year, making him smile, occasionally laugh, making his heart pound with desire, his fingers itch with wanting to touch her, making him remember that he was Anders, and that he was still human.

He closed his eyes, letting exhaustion take him over, the scent of her filling him with peace, like her arms around him, like her voice whispering softly in his ear.


	7. Chapter 7

Kit unlocked the door with a sigh of relief.  Maker, it was good to be home.  The disaster on Sundermount had exhausted all of them, physically and emotionally, Merrill weeping inconsolably over the loss of her former friend, Pol.  They'd retrieved the tool for her- Kit had to hope that it'd be some measure of comfort.  It was clear that Merrill would never be welcome amongst her people again, and their cold disgust and hate had wounded the delicate elf as surely as Pol's death.  What had been planned as a visit as much as an errand had ended abruptly with their retrieval of the arulin'holm, and Kit had herded the heartbroken elf out of the camp, doing her best to return the cold stares of the Dalish with a measure of haughty indifference.

They'd camped early, then trudged back to Kirkwall in the coolness of the early morning- the sun wouldn't rise for a few hours, yet, but the quiet stillness of the house was peaceful, comforting.  

Closing the door behind her, she walked wearily into the main room, Rand standing with a yawn and a wag of the tail to greet her.  "Good boy," she said, pulling off her gauntlets and giving him an affectionate ear-rub.

She walked from the main room into the service quarters where the kitchen and various storerooms were housed, heading for the armory.  Unbuckling her armor with quick, efficient movements, she arranged the plate on its stand, returning her sword and shield to their customary places as well.  Bodahn would see to the cleaning and mending, the spots of gore removed, metal polished to a fine shine, leather strapping repaired or replaced as needed.

Sighing with relief once the armor was off, she moved to the kitchen and poured a measure of the cool mint tea they kept on hand into an earthenware mug.  Rolling her shoulders and wincing slightly- she'd have several bruises the size of her hand tomorrow- Kit moved to the bathing chamber and opened the spigot, filling a bucket with cool, clean water.  She pulled off her grimy clothes and tossed them into a pile in the corner, then scrubbed and rinsed mercilessly until she felt clean.  She pulled on the soft, heavy silken robe, luxuriating in the feel of the smooth cloth against her freshly scrubbed skin, then picked up her mug of tea.

She walked into the hallway- Maker, it was going to feel good to sleep on a real bed again.  She'd had a bit of sleep the night before, so she wasn't precisely tired, but the idea of luxuriating until noon, napping on and off and maybe catching up on that naughty Orlesian novel she'd been enjoying-

She pushed open her bedroom door, moving quietly.  Mother was a light sleeper, and despite the relatively thick walls, Kit didn't want to risk waking her.  Once Mother was up, she was up, whether she'd had a full night's sleep or a mere few hours' worth- no doubt a legacy of the life they'd had in Lothering.

Her first thought on pushing the door open was irritation- a candle was guttering in its own wax on her desk, left carelessly alight to burn all evening.   _Was Sandal pawing through my things again-_

Her eyes moved to the chair, and when she saw the feathered coat, the familiar black boots, she stopped, heart thudding so loudly in her chest that she thought that all of Hightown would hear-

And there, in the bed, a body under the covers, a hint of red-gold hair peeking out from under the covers, her _journal_ on the pillow next to him.

She blinked.   _I've had this dream, I'm sure- well, not exactly like this, but there's a first time for everything, and I must be dreaming, because the man who's frustrated me for years is sleeping in_ my _bed._

She pinched herself, surreptitiously.

Her gaze wandered back to the desk- what in the Maker's name was he doing with her journal?  And _Ah, another copy of the manifesto-in-progress._   It explained why he was here, or why he'd come- she had no idea why he was still here, but Andraste's sodding pyre, she wasn't going to complain-

She suddenly remembered all of the things she'd written about him in her journal- _Oh, Maker_ , but he was still here, wasn't he?

She moved silently to the side of the bed, looking down at him in the dim candlelight, and felt her heart contract at the sight of him, peaceful and boyish in sleep, the lines of worry or anger smoothed away.  His hair lay spread on the pillow, a careless fall of red-gold, and she clutched the mug of tea to stop herself from reaching out a finger to stroke a strand of hair, to cup that curved jaw, to run a thumb across that pouty lower lip.

He had such long eyelashes for a man, eyebrows a touch darker than his hair, cheeks hollow- he was thin, too thin.

Unable to hold back any longer, she sat gently on the bed, mug in one hand, and reached out the other to brush the backs of her fingers across his cheek.

"Hnn-" he mumbled, turning into her touch like a sleepy kitten, and then his eyes fluttered slowly open.  He blinked blearily for a few moments before turning to her.

"Good morning," she said softly.

She could see realization rushing back to him, color rising in his cheeks, and she couldn't help the chuckle that escaped.

"Someone's been sleeping in my bed, and he's still there!" she mocked gently, quoting the familiar children's tale.

Anders pushed himself into a sitting position, raking a hand through his hair, gaze darting guiltily to the journal on the pillow, then back to her, noting the robe, the mug of tea she held in her hand.

"I wish I had a perfectly good explanation for this," he said, voice raspy with sleep.  "I came to drop off the manifesto- and then Bodahn offered me dinner, and it was late-"  His eyes dropped to the mug in her hand and she handed it to him.  He took a drink, then cleared his throat, fingers toying with the mug.

"A little light reading before bed?" she said, picking up the journal and setting it on the night-table.

"I've never been good at resisting temptation?" he offered sheepishly.

"Well, if that's the case you've been doing a damned fine imitation for the last three years- either that or my journal is more of a temptation than I am," Kit said, and he winced.

"That- came out wrong," he sighed.  "Maker, I've invaded your privacy in so many ways tonight- I'm sorry," he said.  "This-" he gestured at the bed, the journal- "It was a small thing to give in to- but you-" he looked at her searchingly- "I don't want to hurt you, sweetheart-"  He brought up a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, sighing.  "I'm sorry."

"I'm not asking for an apology," she said mildly, the calmness of her speech belying the rapid beat of her pulse.  "But I hope you don't think I'm just going to let you walk out of here."

His head whipped up to look at her, and she reached for the mug of tea, pulling it out of his nerveless fingers and setting it on the nightstand.  Without another word her hands went to the tie of her robe, and she pulled it loose, hearing his intake of breath.

She stood, and as the robe fell open she shifted, letting it slide off her skin and onto the floor in a silken puddle.  He went still as stone.

She set one knee on the bed, then moved to straddle him in a single swift movement, and at his small, strangled noise she cupped his jaw in her hands and bent to kiss him.

That first electric touch of lips had them both drawing in a little gasp, and she pressed the lightest of kisses, one after another, slowly against his mouth.  She luxuriated in the feel of him under her hands, her mouth, _hers_ , at last, and as his mouth opened against her, the softest touch of his tongue against her lips driving her mad.

She let out a small, needy sound, and then he was nipping at her, the heat of his mouth, the shared taste of mint tea between them, and when strong hands smoothed over her buttocks, feathering up her back she nearly sobbed in relief.

"I'm done resisting," he whispered against her lips, and she couldn't help the smile that spread across her lips.

"Thank the Maker," she sighed, words turning to a slight hiss of pain as his hands ghosted over the small of her back.

He stilled and made a small, inquisitive noise, then pulled back from the kiss.  "Sweetheart?"

"We met a varterral on Sundermount," she said by way of explanation and watched his eyes widen.  

"I didn't think those were real," he said, and she grinned wearily.  "Neither did I."

"Lay down," he ordered, and she giggled at the Healer voice.  "You should see the other guy," she quipped, lying down on her stomach, and felt him lean over, fingers tracing the bruising.  "It's nothing too terrible- the beast kicked like a ten-foot tall mule with an attitude problem."

Seconds later, the warmth of Creation magic ran across her skin like a warm, soothing balm, and as it soaked into her muscles, bruised tissue mending, aches fading, she groaned in appreciation.  

"Better?" he said, and she sighed in response, his fingers pressing into her skin, checking for any sign of lingering pain.  

"Better," she said, moving to turn over, and he pressed with his hands, halting her movement.

"Just- let me look at you," he said, softly, and she lay obediently under his hands, closing her eyes as he ran his palms down her back, then back up to her shoulders, hands moving away before callused fingers traced down her spine, moving to trace the curve of her buttock, slipping between her thighs to rest at the curls covering her entrance.

"Anders-" she sighed, and the teasing fingers moved to caress the backs of her thighs, his weight shifting as he stroked a gentle hand down her leg, caressing the back of her knee, tracing the curve of her calf, then back up again.  His hands were warm, fingers callused, and his touch gentle, reverent as he cupped a buttock, smoothing his hand up her back.  He leaned in to press a soft kiss against the back of her neck, and she let out a little mewl of pleasure, each gentle caress both arousing and relaxing.

He pulled back to sit on the edge of the bed, and she rolled over to see him pull his tunic over his head, tossing it to the ground before untying the drawstring waist of his trousers and pushing them off, then fumbling with the ties to his braies.  Sitting up, she reached over, biting her lip, and traced one of the scars on his back.  They ran in parallel lines, some raised, some barely visible-

"Why didn't you heal these?" she whispered.

He stilled.  "It'd defeat the purpose if the templars whipped you, then let you heal yourself," he said, flatly.  "They drained my mana before they did it, but a few of the other apprentices healed the worst of it when they could.  It was a punishment reserved for-" he grinned mirthlessly- "repeat offenders."

She moved until she was behind him and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tightly.  He relaxed under her touch and they sat there for a moment, skin against skin, until she laid a kiss on his shoulder.

He turned, then, and ran his fingers delicately up her throat, and their eyes held, amber eyes gazing into golden.  She smiled as he leaned in, and closed her eyes as their mouths met, his tongue lapping at hers before sucking on her lip, one hand moving to cup her cheek while the other smoothed over her hair.

She kissed him back, suckling on that lovely, pouty lower lip, and then moving back to a gentle, sweet press of lips, smoothing her hands over his collarbone.

When a hand moved down to cup her breast, thumb stroking over her nipple, she let out a soft _hmm_ of pleasure, kitten-licking at his mouth, unable to hold back a giggle as his hands stroked down her ribs.

"Ticklish?" he said, and she grinned at him.  

"And- happy," she said, and his answering smile made her melt.

She moved her hands down his body, enjoying the sprinkle of hair on his chest, the flat plane of his belly, pressing her palm against the jut of his hip.  When she wrapped a hand around his hardening length, he let out a soft sound, eyes closing as she stroked gently from base to tip.

"Lay back," she said, and when he raised an eyebrow, gave him a slight shove.

He lay back, one arm tucked behind his neck, and she knelt between his legs, licking her palm before taking him in hand.  One stroke, two, and he closed his eyes, arching into her touch with a soft exhalation of breath.  She brought her hand back up and licked it again, enjoying the taste of him that lingered before returning to stroke again.  Joining a second hand to the first, she gripped the base of his cock in one hand, stroking the foreskin over the head with the other, making him groan, breath panting as she sped up her pace.

"Love-" he gasped, a hand moving to still her own, "slow down, or I-" he groaned when she gave him another stroke- "won't last."

He moved to sit up, eyes full of heat as he took in her moue of disappointment, and a smile quirked at the side of his mouth.  "I promise, you can do that as much as you like-" he leaned in to lap at her mouth- "later.  But right now-" he pushed her back to the bed, covering her body with his own, the feel of him resting against her stealing her breath.  And then he was kissing her, more roughly, mouth demanding, a hand coming around to hold the back of her neck before he moved down to lave his tongue over her nipple.

She let out a soft cry as he began to suck, drawing the tip into his mouth, her own hands moving to grip the bedsheets, and when his own hand laced in hers, holding her, loving her, she took in a shallow gasp of air, her head tilting instinctively to the side as he hmm'ed, the suction strong, demanding, tongue lapping shallow strokes at the raised nipple inside his mouth.

He released her and gave similar attention to her other breast, then sat up between her thighs, licking the pads of two fingers.  "My turn," he said with a wicked smile, then reached down to stroke from the bottom of her slit to the top, slowly.  His fingers teased her curls, spreading her own wetness, and then he reached his fingers up to his mouth, lapping deliberately at them, tasting her, watching her.

"Anders," she gasped as his fingers returned, rubbing, teasing at her entrance, moving up to rub at her pearl before moving back down to hint, stroking, but never quite entering.  She moved her hips, seeking penetration, and he pulled back, smirking at her moan of frustration.  

"Patience, love," he said, and she sighed as his hand moved up to stroke her belly possessively, moving his thumb back down to stroke rhythmically at her nub.  

When he slipped his hand back down, fingers dipping in her slick, she bit her lip, then let out a choked cry and bucked when he gently slid a finger inside.  His other hand came down to stroke her thigh, and when a second finger joined the first, thumb moving over her pearl with every movement, she couldn't stop the sounds that came from her, _Oh, oh, OH yes-_

Anders splayed his other hand over her belly, holding her down as he finger-fucked her with consummate skill.  She began to move in time with his fingers, mouth slack, and it was good, so good, but-

She reached out a hand to still his wrist.  "Anders," she said, "I want your cock inside me."

He smoothed his hand over her belly, then withdrew his fingers with a shaky breath.  "All right, love," he said, and moving forward, bend to cover her.

At that first press of his cock, easing slowly, deliberately inside, she let out a soft, choked cry matched by his moan.  He moved gently, easing and out, a little deeper with each thrust, letting her adjust slowly to his girth.  He pressed his forehead to hers, panting slightly, and when, finally, friction and resistance gave to the first slow, smooth glide, she smoothed her hands along his sides, down his back, grasping his buttocks, urging him on.

"Oh, _Maker_ ," he gasped, hips circling, sliding, keeping the pace achingly slow despite her own desire to arch into him, grind their hips together, faster-

"Tease," she moaned as he moved, " _more_ , Anders, please."

"Feel me," he said, moving to her ear, whispering, "Feel me inside you, sweetheart-"

She groaned, muscles tightening, and he was moving so very slowly, every agonizing inch that he gave and took so very, very good- this was no frenzied rutting, no, he was driving her insane, but it was perfect, and she wanted _more_ -

And then, suddenly, he was hitting a spot that made her see stars, bucking underneath him, and she needed him now, right _now_ , or she was going to die.

"Anders- I'm going to-" she sobbed out, and then, thank the Maker, he was moving faster, thrusting harder, and she bit his shoulder to muffle her cries as she came, vising around him as waves of ecstasy rolled through her, his deep thrusts and low, desperate moans a perfect counterpoint, _yes, there-_

She held him tight when his breath caught, and with a series of deep, rasping cries he buried himself in her and came, one last, deep thrust, then another, breath hot against her neck, their hearts racing.

They rested like that, and for the first time in three years, Kit was utterly at peace.  No more wishing, longing, wondering- he was _here_ , with her, and she couldn't imagine wanting anything ever again-

His stomach rumbled in the quiet, and she grinned, giggling with mirth as he shifted.  "I see how it is- we make passionate love and then you want a sandwich.  Just like a man."

"Bit early for a sandwich," came the muffled reply.  "But I wouldn't say no to breakfast."

"Perfect," she said with a wicked grin, "My mother usually wakes up around this time- she'll be so glad you're joining us."

He groaned.  "On second thought, I could just climb out the window-"  He moved as if to roll out of bed, and she lunged for him, tackling him in the sheets, driving an _oof_ from him as she landed her full weight on his back.

"I don't _think_ so," she said, smugly.  

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The journal sat on the desk, carelessly open for anyone to come by and read, the next entry written in two different hands, complete with an illustration of a stick figure in robes bending a stick figure in armor over a desk.  It trailed off into an unintelligible scrawl and several large blots, as if two people were fighting over the quill-

********************************************************************************************************

 _9:33 Dragon, 16 Drakonis_

 _Anders moved in yesterday, bringing a chest full of his things, some books, his clothes and staff.  We spent a few hours getting everything situated- Mother took the news pretty well, considering.  It's not as though she has room to complain, exactly, and Anders charmed her immediately despite the fact that he's not noble-born or wealthy._

 _Besides, I'm both of those things, so I can afford to do as I like, even if it means taking in_ ~~scruffy, penniless apostates-~~

 **Charming, handsome apostates with hearts of gold and pricks the size of-**

 _Yes, yes, you're perfect, I admit it, now stop-_

(The next section is completely unreadable.)

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the finale! I realized I was writing the calendar wrong- it’s the 9th Age (Dragon), and 31st, 32nd, and 33rd years, respectively. Apologies for the mixup.
> 
> Glad to have another fic finished. Hope you all enjoy!


End file.
